Protect And Defend

38

The orange-and-white taxi had been cruising the southern edge of the old city for the better part of an hour. One man sat in back and the other drove. They stopped for coffee once and at a newsstand a second time. Fifty minutes into their patrol they headed further south. They had selected their spots the evening before. The locations were some of their best. Both were within two miles of the base’s main gate, which was crucial. Sahar and Ziba were Iranian revolutionary guardsmen who were now attached to the Quds Force. They were part of a small cell whose specialty was mortar attacks. They’d been in Iraq for only five months, but they knew their way around well.

When they received the final call they were only three blocks from their first launch point. The small car sped down the garbage-ridden street and stopped next to a dilapidated warehouse. Both men jumped out. The car was left running and the trunk was opened. Sahar, the larger of the two, grabbed an M224 60mm mortar. Fully assembled, it weighed close to fifty pounds. He set the base plate down exactly in the middle of a chalk-drawn circle that he had put there the night before. He then moved the feet of the bipod so they were positioned directly on top of two marks. The elevation and traversing screws were already dialed and locked in. Sahar stepped away from the mortar and on his way back to the trunk passed Ziba, who was headed toward the tube with a round in each hand.

Sahar put on a pair of heavy leather gloves and grabbed two rounds for himself. They had done this dozens of times, but they had attacked the main base only once, and that had been months ago. They had found out the hard way that the Americans had very advanced, fire-finding artillery radar. One of their first missions had been to fire on the main runway as a cargo plane was coming in for a landing. They set up their mortar, got a shell, and then dropped it in the tube. With a thud and whoosh it was gone. They stood there waiting to hear the explosion. It came a few seconds later and they clapped and laughed with elation. Sahar was about to drop a second round in the tube when they heard the whistle of an inbound artillery shell. The only thing that saved them was a nearby sewage ditch that they reached as the first of six shells pounded their position. The car was completely destroyed. Sahar had lived and learned.

On this particular day Sahar and Ziba were less than enthusiastic about their job. The man from Hezbollah had told them what he expected of them, and it was too much. Six mortar rounds fired from one tube would take nearly twenty seconds. More than enough time for the Americans to fire back at them and with shells a hell of a lot bigger than the ones they were firing. They told him his plan wouldn’t work and he immediately called their devotion into question. Even their manhood. Sahar and Ziba had taken the bait and had told the man they would do it. Neither man had slept well, and in the middle of the night they agreed that four shells would be enough. They would then drive to a second position and fire two more.

Sahar returned to the mortar tube and looked at his friend who nodded that he was ready. Sahar dropped the shell in the tube and each man took a half step back. There was a loud bang and whoosh as the shell was sent skyward. Gravity would play its role within a second and pull the round back down to earth, hopefully placing it near the front gate of the base. Ziba dropped the second round in the tube and off it went. The last two shells were launched, and Sahar grabbed the hot tube with one hand and the bipod with the other. He heaved the fifty pounds of metal into the trunk and ran for the driver’s door. Just as he was sliding in behind the wheel he heard the bloodcurdling whistle of an incoming round. Sahar stepped on the gas with all his might and the small Toyota took off. A second later the first round hit causing the ground to shake for blocks in every direction. The rear window shattered from a piece of shrapnel, but the car kept moving.

Ziba was now sitting in the front seat with Sahar. The two men looked at each other and laughed nervously. At twenty-four and twenty-five, they still found humor in such things. Eight blocks later they pulled up to their second location. Again Sahar grabbed the mortar and Ziba grabbed two rounds. Sahar placed everything on the proper marks and then reached out for Ziba’s second shell. He nodded for his friend to proceed. Ziba cradled the shell with both hands and tipped it until it slid backwards down into the tube. The 60mm shell boomed out of the tube with force.

This street had dirt and sand covering most of the asphalt. The launch kicked up a cloud of dust, which caused Sahar to lose sight of the tube for a second. Once he reacquired it, he rushed to load his shell. His nerves were frayed and the dust was making things difficult. Under better conditions he probably could have loaded the round without incident, but as soon as he heard the demonic shriek of multiple inbound shells, he panicked and missed the tube entirely.

The shell hit the ground with a clank, and Sahar thought for sure that it would explode. Both men froze for a moment, looked into each other’s eyes and then without having to say a word, starting running like hell for their idling car. With every step Sahar was cursing himself for allowing the Hezbollah man to goad him into doing something so foolish. When he reached the driver’s door, the first 155mm howitzer round impacted a mere seventy feet away. Razor-sharp shrapnel flew in every direction at more than 16,000 feet per second. The concussive blast and the molten hot shrapnel tore through both men in a flash.